Six
by Pipamonium
Summary: She'd take what she got and instead of mourning the loss she'd build herself up again - a stronger, faster, better, deadlier version of her. One forged in the Mojave.


Most people knew her as 'Six' or 'The Courier' - which was often shortened to just 'Courier'. There were probably a dozen more names people called her after they discovered items missing or their computers hacked but she didn't exactly stick around to find out what those names were. She'd gotten a few odd looks when she'd introduce herself after clawing her way out of the grave but by now her reputation proceeded her and no one seemed to look twice at such a different name. She did nothing to hide the fact that she'd been shot. In the head. Not that the rather prominent scarring made it easy to hide if she wanted to. So she used it to her advantage.

She'd quickly found that people would see her scar, put two and two together, and arrive at five. To be fair - she did encourage the bad math. It was ridiculously easy to play people for fools; to let them see what they expected, believe what they wanted… Occasionally she felt shame, taking advantage of people the way she did. Particularly when some truly kind and generous person(s) would take her in for a time. Feed her, clothe her, give her a safe place to lay her head, apply medical aide as needed - without asking for anything in return. She always did her best to repay them. If not immediately then eventually, and with interest. Most people were assholes and deserved everything they got, so these feelings were few and far between.

It had all begun as genuine, frustratingly so, but had become a useful tool for manipulation. When asked questions, specifically personal ones, it was just _so_ easy to respond with some variation of 'I don't know'. To grimace in pain and rub at the edges of the scaring as if to sooth away a fresh ache. To allow herself to stare blankly into space for a few moments like a robot hitting an error in its programming, forcing a restart. Each action had a clear and believable escalation of reaction if the questioner pushed her, though few did.

When she wanted to be underestimated it was a simple enough task to ask a question, wait several minutes then ask it again, rinse and repeat as needed. Depending on her audience she'd either ask the same question or a variation of the same question as if she had no memory of asking/receiving an answer previously, or she'd ask 'clarifying' questions as if she remembered the basic gist but none of the content of what was said to her previously.

If it wasn't so pathetic it would be hilarious how little people minded their tongues around her when they thought she couldn't remember anything for any appreciable amount of time. The number of secrets she'd been told or overheard would make both the bull and the bear weep. It was particularly amusing when someone would lie to her face over and over again. Each time she'd accept their answer pleasantly enough and move on, before dinging a way to swing it back and ask again. Most people eventually broke down and told their version of the truth, declaring it didn't matter since she wasn't going to remember anyway.

While it was true that she had some memory loss, it was relatively minor. At least it rarely bothered her anymore. When she had first awoken in Doc Mitchell's home, the holes were enormous and nearly complete. She had felt physically sick at how empty her skull was. She didn't know her name, if she had a family, even her own face seemed a strangers. Her procedural memory was intact: she knew how to walk, how to talk, understood what was said to her, could name everything she saw, pick a lock, shoot a gun… and she clearly remembered the face of the man who shot her. It was enough to be getting on with then.

Over time she healed. While she healed, she travelled. She'd be damned if she could tell which was the greater help. Between the two, memories trickled and sometimes gushed back to her. It was to be expected - buried or lost memories could be dug up with proper stimulation such as the right smell or brought over by a related memory. That didn't mean everything was right as rain for her either.

Factual memories - her name, her younger brother's, her hometown, her childhood pet, her birthday… those were clear, for the most part, and slotted into their places cleanly. However, her episodic memories: her first taste of sex, playing in the ocean, camping out on a hot night under the stars, going out with friends, her parents faces… those were often distorted and rough around the edges. Several of them felt more like a mix and match of multiple related but incomplete memories that linked together in a desperate big to make a finished work. Several more were a lot more factual in nature - more of a 'this happened' than any real depth, feeling, or substance to them. Furthermore, she couldn't be certain how much of those memories were wholly true and how much her subconscious filled in to help her feel better. Feel complete.

Not that it really mattered. Here and now… that's all she needed to focus on. Take everything one day at a time, one step after another. It didn't matter if she remembered before, as long as she could remember what she'd learned - what she'd done - since. The 'meat' of who she used to be was mostly gone, torn away in a single blast, the remnants held together with baling twine; but her skeleton was soundly intact. She'd take what she got and instead of mourning the loss she'd build herself up again - a stronger, faster, better, deadlier version of her. One forged in the Mojave.


End file.
